Shadows
by Faeline
Summary: "Above the stench and refuse of the city...is a young girl with a broken child's heart."


Shadows   
By ~Faeline~  
  
  
The City has always been a bustling hive of people; the youth of every   
generation come here; seeking their separate paths, striving to fulfill their   
dreams, make their fortune, and leave their imprint on the world. In the   
upper regions, amid the glow of marquees decorated with bold black letters,   
neon signs beckoning hungry patrons, and the noisy congestion of the streets,   
all things seem possible, all dreams attainable. The world is filled with   
opportunity.   
  
The actress in the drab cafe hides her lines in her apron, playing the   
part of the waitress three to four days a week, from noon until closing,   
waiting patiently to land a better role. Something with promise, something   
with glamour, away from the grease stained uniforms, the lewd leers, and the   
smell of coffee left too long on the burner.   
  
In cheap studio apartments, located in the less reputable areas of the   
arena, dancers twirl through drills, pirouetting through levels of fame, to   
the sound of rapturous applause in the backgrounds of their psyche.   
  
Broadway wannabes memorize lines, and exercise their vocal chords during   
their off hours, and whenever it's possible to steal a moment from the rush   
of life, and the pressing reality of making the payment on the voice lessons   
they can't afford. All in the hopes of landing a roll not too far from the   
lime lights of the mainstream culture.  
  
On the streets, vendors set up their booths, and stands, and tables,   
hawking their goods with the seasoned tongues of auctioneers.   
  
Street artists position their white-washed canvases, with their small   
cans of oil paints, and turpentine organized around the wooden legs of the   
tripod. Their various other works are situated against the brick walls behind   
them; set up strategically to catch the eye of a passerby with change to   
spare, in the hopes of making the rent this month. (With perhaps a little   
left over for that new brush, or a few hot meals, a pair of sandals for the   
summer months, or a small package of finely ground crystals.)   
  
Grocers pile wooden crates full of fresh fruits and vegetables, and set   
them under the shade of their canopies. Piles of sanguine colored apples   
give way to golden heaps of bananas, seas of deep green cucumbers, earth   
brown potatoes, and the rough tawny flesh of carrots. Bunches of herbs hang   
from small hooks screwed into the wooden supports of the stands; spry mint   
stalks, peppery thyme, sweet rosemary, and the peculiar freshly washed scent   
of basil.  
  
Other tables accumulate various items pertaining to person and home.   
Used books selling for seventy-five cents to a dollar, plastic trinkets mixed   
in among the sparkling gaudy luminescence of costume jewelry; piles of old   
clothing, some, department store new, others, a short length away from the   
rag bin.  
  
* * *  
  
On and on the market goes, leading deeper into the soul of the city,   
where the shadows lengthen and the lost souls emerge from the jagged mouths   
of decrepit buildings, the stinking darkness of underground tunnels. The   
stench of dead dreams and the wraithlike slivers of childhood's days surround   
this ghetto.  
  
In the silence of the side streets, beneath the rusted railings of fire   
escapes and the narrow black sky, androgynous, dark eyed urchins sell their   
bodies to the passerbys. Prices range; ten for a soul kiss, twenty for   
something more, thirty for the warmth of a body.  
  
On the main streets they set up their own wares for sale. Blankets in   
tatters sit on the sidewalk, home to miscellaneous objects gathered from half   
a life time of drudgery. Shells from the shore of some long forgotten beach,   
books in tatters with whole chapters missing, (leaving one to wonder about   
the fate of its heroes and heroines,) bottles of dyed sand, broken radios,   
dead batteries.   
  
The vendors nod over their wares, remembering a time when they were   
welcome in the brightly lit streets, and the trendy cafes, and the   
cheaply-expensive apartments. Before the shadows swallowed them, and the   
visions of greatness died.  
  
* * *  
  
Above the stench and refuse of the city, below the streets of hopefuls,   
in a comely apartment on the second story of an ancient building, is a young   
girl with long dark hair and a broken child's heart.   
  
She shed a thousand tears for every rainfall that summer. Relived a   
million childhood dreams, recalled in vivid detail the colours of youthful   
fantasies; each long dead, and turned to ash.   
  
Her eyes, once clear as mirrors; the windows to her desires, faded over   
the years, touched by the hard callused hand of reality. They did no more   
than reflect the places around them, the dreary light of the mundane play;   
the ultimatums and lewd offers, the back aches of being on ones feet all   
night, the headaches from studies, the cotton mouthed mutters of lost lines.   
The broken dreams, the leaking hopes.  
  
The rain was falling again.  
  
The orphaned kitten she'd taken in had long ago departed, to pursue other   
interests; chase the dancing droplets across the glass of the windows. Tired   
of the arms that squeezed him, and the endless drought that decorated his fur   
and soaked through to his skin.   
  
So much for warmth and companionship.  
  
She raised her head to the mirror across the way. Her long hair was   
matted, clinging to her face and neck. Her eyes were dull, the tissue around   
them swollen and pink, streaks of silver marred her pale cheeks.  
  
It was this very mirror she'd looked into years ago and seen the images   
of her friends on the evening of her wish. The same mirror she'd looked into   
the next morning, and the weeks and months after, to see nothing but her own   
reflection regarding her with curious sadness.   
  
That's how it remained.   
  
No friendly faces, or kind words. No chivalrous declarations, muffled   
purrs, gruff bargaining. No svelte, sensual voice of reason. Only shadows   
remained, wraiths of memory, silence and cool glass.  
  
The world she'd known had moved on, as happens with time; the world she   
swore she would never belong to was alien, familiar as a snowflake on the   
Sahara.   
  
It was enough.  
  
She closed her diary, a book of secrets, stolen moments and hopeful   
yearnings, rose from the bed in a modified stretch and walked toward her   
vanity.  
  
The box from the antique store sat on the dresser top. Next to it a card   
with "Happy 45th" printed across the front of it, and an over the hill   
message on the inside. She picked up the small nondescript package and   
padded to the bathroom.   
  
The faded shaggy rug was soft and pliable beneath her bare feet. She   
rinsed her face in the sink, splashed the cool sulfur scented water on her   
neck, and sipped a little from a paper cup.   
  
The present was intended to be a gag gift for her father. She remembered   
hearing stories about his adolescence as they walked through antique stores,   
and he reminisced about the objects he recognized, despairing playfully over   
his age.   
  
In an antique store a few months before, she'd spotted it, and decided to   
send it along with a real gift.   
  
She took the lid off the box.  
  
It was an old and rusted metal shaver, but the cartridge opened easily   
enough, and the edges of the blade that fell out still glinted in the dim   
light.   
  
Her father used to tell her of learning to shave with those particular   
razors. One had to be very careful to avoid cutting a tender curve of flesh.   
  
She held the burnished silvery edge vertically against the skin of her   
wrist. The delicate crisscrossing blue veins pulsed rapidly, with every   
heart beat.   
  
One quick downward motion on the left, and then on the right.   
  
The blood swelled, syrupy thick and deep red, crawled down her pale arms,   
to the apex of her elbow, where it gathered in beads of crimson and dripped   
onto the clean countertop and the bathroom rug.   
  
The only sound she heard was her own breath. In the mirror, a young girl   
with long dark hair and eyes dulled with the death of childhood dreams   
regarded her. Blood ran down her arms, swirled around her fingers.   
  
She sank onto the rug, curled like a fetus, watching with a calmness   
that comes only in the last vestiges of life, the blood seeping into the   
woven grey strands.  
  
The noise of the traffic and the lives outside her window faded to a   
distant hum. She swore she could almost hear that soft mocking voice   
surrounding her.   
  
"You're no match for me, Sarah."  
  
It was true.   
  
* * *  
  
A co-worker at the club where Sarah worked nights called the police after   
the girl repeatedly missed her shift.   
  
People in uniforms went in and out of the second story apartment. The   
once clean aroma of the flat was mottled with the raw metallic taste of   
blood, the festering undercurrent of raw flesh and the beginnings of decay.   
  
They found her, curled at the base of the sink, in the position of the   
child in the womb. Blood had dried in the carpet and crevices of tile around   
her. Black as mildew. Her eyes held nothing but the glassy gelled gaze of   
death.   
  
They reflected the dim light.  
  
The kitten had been in and out of the bathroom, crying, for the first two   
days. His voice had become soft and coarse.   
  
On the third day it nibbled at the flesh on her fingertips, and the open   
gash on her wrist. Cats will feast on the flesh of their beloved owners when   
left too long with the corpse. There were dried flakes of blood on his paws.   
  
  
His eyes, one blue and one green, watched from the shadows of a corner as   
men came and bore his mistress away, tucked beneath a white sheet, that clung   
to her and concealed her form.  
  
Outside, the traffic continued moving, the street vendors hawked their   
wares, the prostitutes their bodies; the refuse of the city, whatever they   
could find. The Broadway wannabes still sang, the waitresses memorized their   
lines, and the sidewalk artists painted morning landscapes with golden   
sunrises.   
  
~Fin~  
©Faeline/00-01 


End file.
